


sing me like a choir

by orphan_account



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Catholic Guilt, M/M, Oneshot, Priest Chan, Vampire AU, if ur christian maybe dont read this LMFAOOO, judgemental jesus statues, side minsung, this one is for my lgbts who grew up in the church, ummm - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:48:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27389734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: God has eight billion little lambs, and Bang Chan is to shepherd as many as he can to salvation.
Relationships: Bang Chan/Lee Felix
Comments: 11
Kudos: 136





	sing me like a choir

**Author's Note:**

> [song title](https://open.spotify.com/track/72mvdKU4Lw2737idPLKTjh?si=ogI6tvspSviRuZ46VHGlVg)
> 
> yeah so obviously as a Gay who was traumatized by my christian upbringing this isn't exactly god positive so if u love the big man up in the sky this isn't for u xoxo!  
> also there's brief mentions of animal death but it's not descriptive! enjoy <3

_ “Be sober-minded; be watchful. Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.” _

**\----1 Peter 5:8**

God has eight billion little lambs, and Bang Chan is to shepherd as many as he can to salvation. 

It’s not going to be an easy job- Chan’s fingers stutter on the tiny wooden buttons of his black cassock at the thought of all those people out there who will soon look to  _ him  _ for guidance- but the father in Sydney had taken him in all those years ago, eyes kind and church warm, and promised him a good life.

All Chan has to do is believe it. 

_ Do you?  _ Chan looks up from his cassock and at his reflection in the mirror. His face looks back, skin flushed and tanned and slightly washed out by the colour of his clothing. He looks  _ different,  _ but he also looks right. 

“Yes,” Chan says aloud, slipping one hand into the pocket of his trousers and making sure that the glossy walnut beads of his rosary are still tucked neatly there. “Lord, guide me today. Give me the strength and wisdom to lead these people properly and treat them as you would treat your own children.” He exhales slowly and closes his eyes.

If he concentrates, he thinks he can almost feel a warm presence at his side- but when he blinks and straightens, the feeling is gone. 

“Go, therefore, and make disciples of all nations,” Chan whispers to his wide-eyed reflection. “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to you. Matthew 28.” 

He straightens his collar, pushes back his hair, and leaves the little office bathroom to go greet Father Mark. 

***

Chan’s not a proper priest. Not yet. It’s taken four years, but Chan is nearly there. All he has to do is get through the apprenticeship, and he’s good as gold. 

You’re up early,” Father Mark says warmly. Chan tips his head and nods. “Come in, come in! I have some tea, if you want it.” 

“Please,” Chan says gratefully, shutting the door carefully behind him. 

The father’s office is large and well lit; the morning light streams through the stained glass windows in rainbow shards. The tea that Father Mark hands him is mild and smells faintly of citron. “What do you need me to do today?” 

Father Mark steeples his fingers and looks over at him contemplatively. Chan does his best not to fidget in the uncomfortable wooden chair. “I just need you to be… present. Make yourself known. Familiarize yourself with the congregation. Listen when you need to.” He clears his throat and takes a sip of tea. “I assume that the chapter in Sydney taught you, ah, some of the more physical training?” 

A small chill tickles the back of Chan’s neck, just under his collar. “Yes,” he replies evenly. “The staff there taught me everything I could possibly need to know. I was top of my class in theory and performance.” 

“That’s good,” Father Mark replies, “because there’s a wolf dressed as a sheep within these walls, and I will require your assistance in getting rid of it.” 

“Getting  _ rid  _ of it?’ Chan bites back a frown. “I was taught to- purify. To cleanse and release.” 

“That doesn’t matter,” Father Mark says tiredly. He removes his round spectacles and places them on the table. “Not at this point. If my other brothers are correct, we’re dealing with a Category Seven scenario.” 

A small seed of unease sprouts in the pit of Chan’s stomach.  _ A Category Seven?  _ Those are incredibly rare; the only documentation the Church has of these cases date back to the sixteenth century and have very little helpful information on handling and cleansing. 

Father Mark nods at the look on Chan’s face. “It’s going to be more troublesome than I anticipated, so I called an old friend and his charge to help as well. They should be here soon.” 

Chan licks his dry lips. “I’m not sure that I’m experienced enough to handle a Cat Seven, Father. I have some experience in the field, but not…not anything like this.” 

“You won’t be alone,” Father Mark replies evenly. “You’re never alone, son. Just have faith. It’s the strongest weapon you have.” 

Chan nods, but unease still sits heavy on his chest. 

“Just observe for today,” Father Mark advises. He slides out of his chair, opens the lacquered oak door, and beckons for Chan to follow. “Look out for the wolf, and report back to me.” 

“Yes, Father,” Chan says quietly, and follows. 

***

It’s hard to believe that there’s a monster amongst the people at this church. Chan watches them stream through the double bay doors, laughing and talking and dressed in their finest Sunday clothes. Behind him, the choir runs their scales, their voices blending into a single line of melody. 

_ A Category Seven.  _

Perhaps the Father is wrong: it’s happened before, with Fours and Fives who are a little too good at pretending to be something greater than they’re not. And Chan can’t feel any sickness in the church itself, can’t feel any ill intent or dark energy in the arched ceiling beams or floor-to rafter windows. 

“You must be the new priest.” Chan blinks and looks up. There’s a young man-around his age, probably- standing there in a similar black cossack, eyes sparkling and tousled hair just past the appropriate length for a member of the church. “Hello,” he says. “Are you here to help with, ah, the situation the Father mentioned?” 

The man laughs, light and clear. “That’s going to be mostly the work of  _ my  _ Father- Father Minho. I’m just finishing up my training, like you. I’m supposed to go by Sam, but I really prefer Jisung.” He holds out a hand, his smile wide and easy, and Chan shakes. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Jisung. I’m Chan.” 

“You’re so composed. I have a bad habit of running my mouth when I’m nervous,” Jisung confesses. 

Chan laughs, some of his worries dissipating . “I spent at least half an hour giving myself a pep talk in the bathroom before coming out here. If we stick together we should be fine.” 

Jisung nods. “I like that plan. Shall we go introduce ourselves?” 

“Yeah,” Chan says. “Yeah, let’s do that.” 

And they do. The people are lovely and accommodating; they welcome Chan and Jisung with open arms and many, many questions. 

“You’re both so young,” one elderly woman comments, fondly giving the both of them pats on the arm. “The Lord must have great plans for you two!” 

“I certainly hope so,” Jisung replies, eyes warm. “There’s nothing greater than serving something beyond me.” Chan just nods, throat tight. The elderly woman-Jan,her name is- strongarms them into attending the bake sale after the service and goes to take her seat in one of the front pews.” 

“I see that Jan has already trapped you into an after church function.” 

Chan turns. A young man is standing there, dressed neatly in a white dress shirt and slacks. His hair is platinum blonde and wavy; there are freckles scattered across his cheeks and temples. He looks like something straight out of a renaissance painting. 

“I don’t mind,” Jisung says easily, sticking out a hand. “I’m a sucker for cookies.” The man shoots the apprentice a lopsided smile and takes his hand. “That’s good. I’m the one running the fundraiser, you see. It’s for the children’s program.” 

“We’ll be there,” Chan promises. “I’m Chan, and this is Jisung. We’re training under Father Mark for the time being.” 

“Ah!” The man says, clearly delighted. “Priests-to-be, then! It’s so lovely to meet you. I’m Lee Felix.” Chan shakes Felix’s hand, something warm and strange curling against the base of his spine as his fingers brush against the other man’s. 

“We’re not quite there yet,” Chan confides, holding onto Felix’s hand a moment too long before letting go. “But we’ll do our best not to disappoint.” 

“I’ll be cheering the two of you on,” Felix replies softly, eyes warm. Chan fights the urge to look away. “If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to talk to me or any other member of the board. Enjoy the service.” 

“He’s so  _ nice,”  _ Jisung remarks. “Everyone is. I’m finding it hard to believe that there’s a… you know.” 

“I know,” Chan says absently, watching as Felix sits down next to a group of young adults, his hands waving around animatedly as he talks. “I thought that perhaps it was a Four or Five, because they’re so good at projecting.” 

Jisung looks over at him. “I don’t want to come across as cowardly, but I really hope you’re right.” 

“You’re not a coward,” Chan says. Onstage, the choir draws in a single collective breath and begins to sing, filling the rafters with song. “Nobody wants to have to deal with something like this.” 

“No,” Jisung agrees. Chan looks at him as he looks ahead, watches the way the sunlight slides over the bridge of his nose, the planes of his face.  _ He looks almost angelic.  _ “But it is our duty.” 

“Yes,” Chan whispers, fingers seeking out the familiar shape of the rosary in his pocket. “It is.” 

*** 

_ Chan is eighteen when he’s moved into the special program at the abbey. It’s there that he learns about the existence of demons and ghosts and other aberrations that not even the light of God can fully push away.  _

_ It's there that he learns to take his unclean feelings and lock them up tightly in a box. He learns how to wrap that box in chains and file it away deep into the back of his mind, where it will collect dust and darkness. _

_ He dreams of that box sometimes, and when he does he wakes up sweaty and teary-eyed. _

Chan dreams of that box the day everything goes to hell. 

Chan has spent the past four days observing, just like Father Mark has asked, and found absolutely nothing out of the ordinary- until one of the women from the choir approaches him on one foggy October morning.

“Father?” 

Chan turns, hymnal in hand. “Yes?”  _ Her name is Agnes, I think.  _ She looks distraught, face pale and her teeth digging so deeply into her bottom lip that the skin there is white. 

“Something is wrong in the sanctuary. I don’t know how it happened, but….” Agnes fiddles with her purse, eyes cast downwards. “... several members of the choir are very upset.” 

A small chill tickles the back of Chan’s neck. He snaps the hymnal shut and places it on his desk. “Let me take a look.” 

He steps one foot into the sanctuary and freezes. Every single cross in the room has been turned upside down- even the fifty pound wooden one mounted firmly into the far wall. The choir collectively turns to look at him, eyes expectant. 

_ Trust me,  _ Chan thinks.  _ You don’t want to know.  _ Despite the reversal of the cross being a direct defiance of God, this gesture feels almost  _ playful.  _ Chan frowns and ghosts his fingertips over one of the overturned crosses. 

“Well,” an unfamiliar voice drawls from behind him, “I suppose the teenagers are back at it. We’ll have to get the locks changed again.” 

Chan steps aside to allow the new man to pass by.  _ He must be Father Minho.  _ He looks young for a full priest: Chan watches with interest as the other man tugs at the back of his collar, pulling the fabric up to cover the edges of a faded tattoo. 

“Teenagers?” Agnes says tremulously.

Minho nods. “Unfortunately. We’ve had them pull routine pranks on us for a few years now, ever since…well.” He flaps a dismissive hand. “I suppose it doesn’t matter.” 

“Do you need us to leave, Father?” one of the choir members asks. Chan does a double-take. It’s Felix from the bake sale, dressed casually in a loose caramel pullover and faded denim trousers. His hair is fluffy: it looks soft. Chan can’t help but notice a stray thread on the cuff of his trousers, can’t help but notice how warm his eyes are as they meet with Chan’s. Chan looks away, towards the statue of Christ. 

For a man being crucified, he looks almost judgemental.  _ I’m sorry,  _ Chan thinks, not quite sure of what he’s apologizing for. Christ looks down on him, his stony face impassive. 

“Yes,” Minho replies. “Yes, I think it would be best if practice was cut short for today. Apologies for the inconvenience, everyone.” 

The choir disassembles in a flurry of movement and hushed murmurs. Most of them don’t look convinced that this was the work of teenagers . Chan shakes his head and pushes himself off of the wall, determined to make a good first impression with Minho- and is swiftly intercepted by Felix. 

“Did you get a haircut?” The younger man smiles at him, eyes round and innocent. 

Chan blinks rapidly and brushes his fingers over the nape of his neck, taken aback. “Ah… yes. Yesterday.” 

Felix smiles at him. “I like it.” 

Chan watches him wave and walk away, dumbfounded. Something soft twists in his chest; alarmed, Chan does his best to shove it away, into the box.  _ Stop that.  _

“It seems like you’re already popular with the people here.” 

“I suppose so,” Chan replies automatically. He straightens up. “Oh! I’m so sorry for not introducing myself sooner. I’m-,” 

“Chan,” Minho finishes, amused. “I know. Jisung told me all about you.” He rocks back on his heels and whistles slowly. “It seems as though I’ve arrived just in time. It’s worse than I thought it would be.” 

Chan swallows. “So we  _ are _ dealing with a Cat Seven.” 

Minho smiles at that, odd and lopsided. It makes something primal scratch at the back of Chan’s brain, paints a red flag in his head. “It appears so. As long as we can isolate the threat, we should be fine.” 

_ It should be fine,  _ Chan repeats silently, one hand resting on the back of a pew. He suddenly feels very small amongst all the crosses. 

***

Jisung finds the cats first- nine calicos, all strung up in a row. It’s lucky that he finds them when he does; Chan can’t even imagine how the congregation would react to dead cats shaped into a demonic glyph. 

Chan finds him standing there, broom in hand. His face is sheet white. “This is evil,” Jisung whispers, voice uneven. “The lack of regard for life… that’s always frightened me the most about these monsters.” 

“I know,” Chan says gently. He places a hand on Jisung’s shoulder and bites down his lip when the other man flinches. “I’ll call down Father Mark and Father Minho. Why don’t you go take a walk in the gardens?"

Jisung nods wordlessly and walks away, arms crossed close to his stomach. Chan watches him go, chest heavy, and looks back down at the cats. He’s seen enough in the field to not be shocked by events like this, but still… it’s disturbing. 

  
***

“I have a few ideas on who our target might be,” Minho confides one day over a staff brunch. “I’m waiting for God to give me the official sign, of course, but I’m fairly certain.” 

Jisung looks around the crowded room and leans in, voice hushed. “Who do you think it is?” 

Father Mark shakes his head and tears off a piece of his whole wheat bun. “Let’s not talk about it here. Too many prying ears and eyes.” 

Minho nods sagely. The priest is eating soup out of a styrofoam bowl, but he still manages to make it look dignified. “I agree.” 

“More soup?” Chan startles and looks up. Felix stands there, a soup tray balanced carefully in one hand and a pink, strawberry-patterned apron tied around his waist. 

_ Pink suits him,  _ Chan thinks, and immediately feels guilty about it. “No thank you,” he says aloud. “I’m full. But it was good.” He swallows and makes eye contact with the younger man. “Really good.” 

The smile Felix gives him in response is innocuous enough: shy, curled up at the corners- but something about having it directed at  _ him  _ feels deeply, deeply sinful. Chan breaks eye contact and shoves half a roll into his mouth. He chokes on it when Felix sends him a parting wink. 

Minho just raises an eyebrow and hands Chan his apple juice. 

***

Rain pours down Chan’s narrow bedroom window. The weather isn’t shocking, given that it is November, but the ferocity of the downpour gives him pause from his journaling. “We might be in for a thunderstorm,” he says aloud. The scented candle on his desk flickers slightly. 

He’s not expecting any visitors- not at this late hour- but when three soft knocks sound at the door, Chan finds himself opening his it anyway.  _ Of course.  _ Lee Felix stands there, sopping wet, hair curling around his face. 

“I’m so sorry,” the other man rushes, mouth screwed up into a grimace. “I got caught in the storm coming home from work, and I couldn’t find anyone else in the building. Do you mind if I come in?” 

“Please do,” Chan’s mouth says.  _ You fucking idiot!  _ His brain screams. He realizes belatedly that he’s violated the  _ very first rule  _ of training, and invited a potential monster inside. F elix smiles at him wanly and steps inside. “Thanks, Chan.” 

“Of course,” Chan manages, eyes darting around the room for a potential weapon. Felix takes off his jacket and rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt. “You know that wasn’t me, right?” 

“What?” 

Felix sighs and runs a hand through his wet hair, scattering shimmering droplets all over the floor. “The crosses. The dead animals. I didn’t do that. I’m here for… other reasons.” 

Chan takes a step back. Felix steps forward, his movements fluid and predatory. 

“That’s really not funny,” Chan counters, fingers sliding around the doorknob. “and I’m afraid I’m off duty for tonight, Felix. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” 

Felix tilts his head, the candlelight throwing deep shadows onto his face. “You can cut the bullshit, Chan. I think it’s about time we stop dancing around each other, don’t you?” 

“I quite like dancing,” Chan says, and dashes out the door. Felix’s laugh follows him down the hallway. “Running won’t do you any good. Just talk to me.” 

_ Father Mark,  _ Chan thinks furiously, turning a corner and nearly slamming into the far wall.  _ I’ll find him- he’ll know what to do.  _ So it was Felix all along, then.  _ What is he?  _ There are a small handful of creatures that are labelled as Sevens- werewolves, succubi, demons, vengeful retail workers, and vampires. 

_ What  _ are  _ you?  _ He’s definitely not a werewolf. A demon, perhaps.

Chan takes the stairs four at a time, arms windmilling through the air as he descends. Father Mark’s doors are already open. 

Dread curls low and thick around Chan’s spine. He takes a deep breath and a cautious step forward. “Father? Are you there?” 

The silence is deafening. Throat tight, Chan slides his hand over the wall until his fingertips catch on the light switch. Neon gold light flickers on briefly before fading out- but it’s enough for Chan to catch a glimpse of Father Mark lying still on the floor, broken glass scattered around his body like a halo. 

A quiet curse slides past Chan’s lips before he can stop himself. 

“That’s not very priestly, Chan.” 

Chan whirls around, but Felix isn’t there. “Where are you?” He shouts. A low laugh is all he receives in response. Chan grits his teeth in a sudden burst of rage and grabs one of the wooden chairs by the desk. He swings it against the far wall once, twice, and tucks the splintered legs under his belt. His hands are bloody and filled with splinters, but he doesn't even register the pain.

_ Holy water. There’s holy water under the pulpit in the sanctuary.  _ He whirls around and sprints out the door. The storm outside must have taken out the power at some point, because the only light that remains inside the church is from golden candlelight and neon red emergency exits. 

Chan runs through psalms and prayers in his head, but they don’t seem to have much effect on the dark. He reaches down into his pocket to touch his rosary- but it isn’t there.  _ It must have fallen out.  _ There’s no time to turn back and search for it, so Chan keeps running. 

The sanctuary is dark and quiet. The prayer candles surrounding the pulpit and stage have been lit- by a member of the congregation, no doubt, but the sight of it fills Chan with unease. 

“If it’s holy water you’re looking for, you’ll find none. I replaced the real stuff with tap water months ago.” 

Chan freezes.  _ He’s behind me.  _ The rough wood of the chair leg digs into his fingers, but he doesn’t dare turn. The statue of Christ suspended above the pulpit looks back at him with wide eyes. 

_ Oh, God,  _ Chan realizes.  _ I’m going to die.  _

“Hey,” Felix says, voice soft as velvet. “You really shouldn’t have invited me into your room, priest-to-be.” He’s close enough that Chan can feel the faint chill coming off his body. “I’m  _ hungry,  _ you know.” 

Chan shivers and turns around. Felix looks at him, eyes dark. He looks the same, but something about the way he stands makes him unrecognizable from the man who sells cookies at church fundraisers. “We can get something to eat,” he manages, and bites the inside of his cheek when Felix grins slow and wide in response. 

"We both know that regular food isn’t part of my diet.” 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Chan manages. Felix steps forward and curls pallid fingers around the side of the pulpit, effectively boxing Chan in. 

“I think you do,” Felix whispers, hunger and regret mixing in his expression as he stares down at the long, slender line of Chan’s neck. “You do, because you were trained to deal with abominations like me at that fancy Catholic program overseas, weren’t you? Freaks of nature. Things cast far from the light of God.”

“We’re all children of God,” Chan says hoarsely. The sentiment rings hollow, even to him.

Felix chuckles and hooks one finger under Chan’s clergy collar, sliding it down to expose his collarbones. “Not me,  _ Christopher _ . I never belonged to God-not even when I was alive.” 

“Alive,” Chan repeats tonelessly. 

“Ah _ live,”  _ Felix mocks, eyes glittering. He grabs Chan’s hand, slides it under his shirt. “Do you feel my chest move, priest-to-be? Can you hear my heart beating?” 

Chan closes his eyes and swallows.Felix has smooth, soft skin that feels odd to touch so casually, and a silence surrounding his chest. The quiet of it makes Chan’s ears ring. 

“You can’t,” Felix says lowly, leaning in until his nose is brushing Chan’s. “You can’t hear it, because I’m dead. Because I’m more than dead. But you knew that, didn’t you?” He keeps Chan’s hand pressed against his chest with one hand and curls the other one loosely around the priest’s throat. “Why didn’t you say anything to the poor, poor father? He caught on to me just a little too late, but he’s alive. Probably.” 

_ Father Mark, cold and unmoving on the stone floor of his office, crushed vials of holy water strewn across the room and around his head.  _

Chan’s eyelashes flutter. “I knew what you were the moment I saw you. You’re not the first vampire I’ve ever seen.” 

Felix is the second- and the first Chan has even encountered alive- but the vampire doesn’t need to know the details. 

“Interesting,” Felix breathes. “Almost as interesting as the way you look at me.” 

Chan’s hand twitches against his chest. “What?” 

The vampire gives him a look that is almost  _ pitying.  _ “You look at me like you want to  _ eat  _ me, priest-to-be. Like you want to devour me whole.” 

(  _ At fourteen, Chan’s parents had kicked him out, because they had found- because Chan had whispered something to the priest in the confessional booth that had been weighing on his mind for years. The priest had not kept his secret confined to the wooden box: he had instead spoken to his parents about it. That secret- his secret- ) _

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Chan hisses, face flushing. “If you’re going to kill me, just go ahead and do it.” 

“Oh, but that would be so  _ boring,”  _ Felix says, and kisses him. Chan stiffens, slides his hand over Felix’s shoulder, stake poised to push through muscle and bone to the vampire’s still heart- and does nothing. 

There’s no darkness at work, here, just Chan. The truth hits him like lightning: he doesn’t want to kill Felix. He doesn’t want Felix to  _ stop.  _

_ God,  _ Chan thinks.  _ I’m so sorry.  _

_ No, you’re not.  _ It’s that little voice inside his head, and it sounds smug.  _ You were never sorry, were you?  _

Chan squeezes his eyes shut and drops the stake. It hits the floor with a dull  _ thud,  _ and it carries all the years of Chan’s self restraint with it. 

Felix’s mouth is cold. He kisses with finesse and a surprising amount of passion. Chan has never been touched like this. He’s never been kissed, ever, so when Felix bites down lightly on his lower lip his knees nearly give out. 

“What a surprise,” Felix says, pulling back and licking his lips. “The priest-to-be likes men.” 

Chan glares and turns his head away. Felix gently turns his face back with the tips of his fingers. “That’s no sin, you know. Just something created by mortal men to shame people into subservience.” He slides his thumb over Chan’s mouth. “Kissing a vampire, though- that’s different. What you just did is unforgivable in your God’s eyes.” 

“I know,” Chan rasps, hating himself for leaning into Felix’s touch. “He’s abandoned me already.” Chan can  _ feel  _ the lack of warmth, can feel the emptiness in the air around him- but he doesn’t care. It scares him a little, how much he doesn’t care. 

“It doesn't matter. A righteous god wouldn’t leave you,” Felix says. “A good god wouldn’t abandon his sheep over a mistake. Perhaps the one you’ve been following isn’t so kind after all.” 

“I don’t want to die,” Chan confesses. 

Felix scans his face for a long moment, expression unreadable. “You don’t have to,” he says finally, the words rolling slow and deliberate off his tongue. “Not if you don’t want to.” 

“What are you saying?” 

“I’m offering you a gift,” Felix murmurs, sliding one hand up to cover Chan’s. “I like you, priest-to-be. I've been watching you for a while, now. You are a decent man, and worth more than a mere meal. I have never liked feeding off of good people; criminals are more my style.” 

Chan’s breath hitches. “You want to turn me?” 

“If you want,” Felix replies. His gaze turns soft, unfocused. “The world is so big, Chan. There’s so much I could show you.”

“Why  _ me?”  _ It doesn’t make sense. Felix has known Chan for a month at most- they’ve only ever interacted at church related events. 

Chan cues the film reel in his head- F _ elix watches him speak, eyes tracking the movement of his hands, Felix compliments his hair and his smile and his shoes-  _ the moments flicker on and on, until Chan is nearly overwhelmed by them. 

Felix rubs a hand across his eyes, something vulnerable and tired leaking out from behind his expression. “I’ve been alive for centuries, Chan. The nights get longer and lonelier the more I’m alone, you know. I grew tired of having to bury my lovers, so I started looking for the right one to turn. You’re the first person in two hundred and fifty years that feels right.” 

He slides a forefinger down the slope of Chan’s nose. “I think I could spend forever with you. I think I could love you fully, if you give me the chance.” 

(  _ “Vampires are notoriously secretive creatures,” Father John says. He taps the crudely drawn image on the screen. “They rarely venture into society for anything more than a meal. They cannot feel anything; do not fall for their lies.”  _

_ Chan nods and makes note of this in his binder. ) _

_ Vampires lie, _ Chan reasons,  _ but so do people. _ There’s something like hope in Felix’s face: Chan has a hard time believing that it’s fake. 

“Don’t do it!” 

The two of them turn to where Jisung stands, chest heaving and eyes wide. “Don’t do it,” Jisung wheezes. “Don’t give up on God, Chan. He has a plan for you. All you have to do is believe.” 

Felix smirks and says nothing. 

Jisung looks so  _ sure,  _ with the dim lighting casting a faint glow over his shoulders and a righteous sort of fire burning in his eyes. Chan envies him for a moment, wishes that he could have a faith like that. 

“I don’t think you understand,” Chan says quietly. “God gave up on  _ me,  _ Jisung. He had his chances to intervene in my life, and he did jack shit. I’m tired of following something I can’t see.” He exhales and turns to Felix. “And I see you.” 

And Felix- Felix smiles at that- really smiles, fangs and all. Chan watches the planes of the vampire’s face morph from stone to something soft and brilliant, and knows that he’s made the right choice for himself. 

“I had hoped that you would say that,” Felix whispers. Chan blinks, and Felix is suddenly right  _ there,  _ skin cold and eyes warm. “It’ll hurt, you know. But the pain is nothing compared to the  _ after.”  _

“I believe you,” Chan mumbles, closing his eyes and allowing Felix to gently pull him into an embrace, neck exposed. “Just be nice about it.” 

“Well,” Felix says lightly, voice lined with velvet, “I’d be lying if I told you I wasn’t going to enjoy this. You smell delicious, and I like you. I’m going to enjoy this _very much.”_ His words twist from velvet into something rougher: something north of fear sends a shudder through Chan’s chest. 

“ _ Chan,”  _ Jisung chokes out, “Don’t-,” 

“Shut up,” Felix growls. “You should leave while I’m still in a good mood, little boy.”

“But-,” 

Chan sighs. “Just go, Jisung.” 

And he does. Chan doesn’t see him go, but he can hear the sanctuary doors open and close, can hear the footsteps receding down the hall. Felix tilts his head and pressed a chaste kiss to Chan’s forehead. “Are you ready?” 

Chan slides one hand around Felix’s waist and curls the fingers of his other around the vampire’s forearm. “Yeah,” he says breathlessly, anticipation and apprehension mixing inside of him. “Yeah, I am.” 

Felix huffs out a quiet laugh and pulls Chan in for another kiss. It’s sweet and short, and the warmth of it slides into something sharper as Felix kisses his jaw, trails his lips down to where Chan’s pulse beats rabbit-quick. 

“Can you count to three?” Chan asks hoarsely, fingers digging into the vampire’s clothing. Felix nods minutely, sounding about as wrecked as Chan does. “Yes, fine. One, two…” 

He bites on two. The  _ bastard.  _

***

Chan doesn’t remember the Turning. He can recall heat, and light, and cold hands against his face, and the taste of strawberries and iron- but the details are blurry and detached. It’s probably for the best. 

He wakes up slowly, face screwed up against a great bright light. He’s taking in a hundred little things at the same time- the sound of someone cooking stew a mile away, baby birds screaming for food in a nest seven hundred meters from him, and the amplified smell of a very familiar perfume. He groans. _It hurts._

“Easy,” someone croons. “Take it slow. This will take some getting used to.” 

Chan licks his lips and sits up, unable to think over the nearly overwhelming thirst burning the inside of his throat. He is in a large, elegantly furnished room, naked save for his pants. Felix is sitting on the edge of the bed in an open cotton shirt. He looks so happy that it physically twists something in Chan’s chest. 

He blinks.  _ My chest.  _ He slides a hand over his skin and feels no movement, no heartbeat. He blinks again, even though he doesn’t need to, and Felix laughs, light and bubbly. “Welcome to forever, darling.” 

A smile splits across Chan’s face unbidden. “I’m  _ really  _ thirsty.” 

“I know,” Felix purrs, leaning over and pulling Chan into a hungry sort of kiss. The force of it blisters his skin, sends heat through his cool skin and thaws him from the inside out. “All in due time. There are  _ rules,  _ you know.” 

“Hm,” Chan says conversationally, currently much more interested in kissing than rules.“That’s fine with me.” 

“I’m glad!” 

Chan screams and jumps, accidentally snapping the bed’s headboard clean off. For reasons unknown Lee Minho is standing in the middle of the room, priest’s robes and all. He looks incredibly pleased with himself. 

“What are you doing here?” 

Minho frowns at Felix. “You didn’t tell him?” 

Felix wrinkles his nose and rolls his eyes. “I forgot. I was a bit excited, you know.” 

“That’s an understatement,” Chan adds helpfully, gesturing at the rapidly fading marks peppered across his neck. “Explain yourself, please.” 

"Well,” Minho says, saccharine sweet,“Felix and I are very good friends. Not like  _ that,  _ you jealous child,” he adds, noticing the perplexed look making its way across Chan’s face. “We’re like brothers. We met in the Goryeo period- in 918, was it?” 

He shrugs and brushes a piece of lint off of his cossack. “I go by a lot of names, but most people know me as Beelzebub.” 

“What,” Chan says. Felix laughs.

Minho nods. “Yes, I know. Terrible name. No need to drag it out.” 

Felix grins and slides his fingers through Chan’s. “I’ll explain later. We’re going to have a lot of fun, ex-priest. You don’t know the half of it.” 

“I think I have an idea,” Chan replies faintly, a slow smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “It’s going to be a long forever.” 

The look Felix sends him is sweet and hungry and filled with something like promise. Like possibility- like one day he’ll turn to Chan and tell him that he loves him. That certain future- that predicted outcome- Chan is looking forward to it. 

He’s looking forward to a lot of things. The box in the back of his mind is finally open. 

For the first time in his life, Chan feels free. 

***

**FOUR YEARS LATER**

The door opens softly. 

"Good afternoon, Archbishop." 

The man looks up from his desk and brightens. There's paperwork everywhere and ink on his fingers, but he's happy. "Ah, Father Minho! It's been a while, hasn't it? What brings you here today?" 

( He knows why. They both know why. )

Minho smiles. "I just wanted to see how my favorite priest is doing. You're not overworking yourself, are you?" 

Jisung flushes- it's almost imperceptible, a tinge of red around the ears and on the nape of his neck- but Minho sees it. He sees it, and his grins grows wider than before. Jisung is such a _challenge,_ because he's so stubborn. Minho likes that. 

"I'm fine. You know how it is." 

"Yes," Minho agrees, walking over to the door and locking it. He looks over his shoulder at Jisung. "I certainly do." 

Jisung has done this dance a thousand times before. He knows all the steps and all the spins. Minho's hands around his waist feel familiar and comfortable; his body is warm where it presses up against Jisung's. The guilt is familiar, too. Usually it eats up at Jisung the more he leans into the touches, the kissing. These days, the guilt has been less and less prominent in his mind, because Jisung is starting to enjoy _this_ more. He doesn't want to think too hard about it. Not yet. 

Minho enjoys this, too. It's equal parts attraction and satisfaction from diverting another lost lamb from God.

God can't kiss like Minho can, and he certainly can't make Jisung happy. Not like Minho can.

Not like Minho will.

_Soon,_ he thinks, stroking a hand over the back of Jisung's neck. _You'll see it soon._

He's never been wrong before, and he won't be now. 

**Author's Note:**

> yeah so... *scratches head* that sure was Something! 
> 
> ♡ [cc](https://curiouscat.me/spearbiz)  
> ♡ [twt](https://twitter.com/bIuntchan)


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